The Sun Rises
by Wombatman9000
Summary: The sun will never set on the Wakandan Empire! Much of the world has fallen to the might of emboldened Wardogs and their zealous supporters, making Wakanda the preeminent nation, as it should be. Earth's mightiest are scattered to the wind. Will they rise to fight this global threat? Or be cast aside just like European colonialism?
1. Chapter 1

The Iron Man is dead. For a decade he unleashed his weapons upon this world. Weapons of mass destruction, suits of lesser metal, and the occasional killer robot army. Now he lies dead in the shattered ruins of his base.

"Almost a shame," says the Black Panther. Smoke curls through his masks filter, stings his nostrils. Familiar. Welcoming. "Another great warrior fallen. But you don't have to join him."

Such pompous gloating might be mistaken for hubris, were he not in the presence of his esteemed Wardogs. Men and women alike, they aim their spears at the sole survivor, having already torn the upstate compound apart. A few of them even smile, not like the serious warriors of Wakanda. They've been softened. Americanized. It's refreshing.

"But you don't have to join your armored friend," he says to the survivor.

He's fallen to his knees, unable to support the weight of his suit. His armor is tattered, scratched to shred, burnt with bolts. The damage is extensive: guns melted off, shielding torn apart, thrusters blown to bits. Enough of his mask has peeled off to reveal that dark skin beneath, and the pain of loss.

A few of the Wardogs share that pain. The only thing holding them up is the adrenaline of the fight and fear of their master. Otherwise, they might fall on their knees and weep as the sight of their dead brothers and sister. The bodies litter the compound, along with the few government employees and civilians who had taken shelter. The whole place would smell of blood, but their spear bolts cauterized the wounds. Somehow that only makes it more gruesome.

"You can join the Wakandan Empire." He extends a hand. "I respect military men like you. Fighters. Killers. It takes skill to do what we do."

"You're out of your damn mind," he spits. The twisted remains of the mask garble his words. Its eye flickers, red then black, red then black. "You'll never win."

"That's what they all say before they die," says the Black Panther. He lets the claws retract back into the suit, loosens his stance. Tries to seem a bit less like a warrior, more like a friend. "That's what they said when they shot us in the streets. When they put us in chains and shipped us across the Atlantic." A thousand years of rage builds behind his teeth. A rage shared by all these Wardogs who saw the crimes of this world. "And now, for the first time ever, we are the victors."

"Half the world's on fire and the other half is in chains," he seethes. "You call that victory?"

"Progress. I call it progress," he shoots back.

W'Kabi's voice rings in his ear: "The remainder of their forces have been skirted, my king. Your Talon fighter awaits at your leisure."

He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to, to be obeyed. "Colonel James Rhodes," he continues. "Kill count as War Machine: upwards of a hundred. At least, according to your government's estimates. How many more would that be with a suit made of vibranium?"

"I just need one," says Rhodes.

He lifts his gauntlet. The gun on top is warped and twisted from taking a heated bolt, but energy still courses through it. Tony used to understand it, remembers, but he never did. And now Tony's dead. He can barely stand to look at that damned lifeless body.

The voice in his helmet no longer speaks. The hud no longer glows to life. He clenches his fist and hopes for the best. The rocket does not fire. Not even an empty click. Nothing.

The servos give out again. His arm falls down to the ground, dragging him with it, sucking the breath out of his chest.

"That wasn't very impressive," he says. "But I respect it. My offer still stands." He kneels down besides the disgraced colonel. The colonel of a nation that no longer exists, at least not as it once did. "Imagine it. Vibranium encasing your black skin, carrying you over white cities. Bombs falling, lasers flying. Death incarnate. And death is black, usually. You think that's a mistake? You think white folks did that by accident? No, they know just what we're capable of."

"You're a monster." The words slip out as quiet as a breath.

He wipes a hand on the disgraced colonel's mask. Then he tears it off, lets it clatter against the ground, and looks upon that scarred and weathered face. "I've brought peace to a continent wrought with fear, famine, and terror. Boko Harem, you fought them, right? Two missions, Nigeria, if I did my reading. Wanna know who wiped them out?"

"Oh great, terrorists replaced terrorists. I'm overjoyed." Rage and grief are all that keep him from collapsing. The occasional glance at Tony's tattered armor sends him back into despair, but his jaw doesn't slacken.

He sighs behind his mask. "You know, I was the one who executed the Winter Soldier. Killed him while he was still frozen. Only took one bullet." Is that nostalgia in his voice? "How many lives did that man take? Didn't he almost install a global Nazi regime? I've done more justice than your Avengers." He stands, smiles behind his mask, and gestures to the collapsing compound. "And what has happened to your Avengers? Why haven't they come to face me? To save you? I'll tell you why. Because the white dogs abandoned you. You were never one of them, not a real Avenger. Just Iron Man with bigger guns. But in my army, you'll be a leader among the best soldiers this earth has ever seen."

Rhodes coughs. A bit of blood trickles out, thick with bile. "You didn't talk this much last time we met."

The Black Panther leans back, flicks the sensor behind his ear. His mask peels back, folding in on itself in such tiny, almost invisible shells.

"You've never met a Black Panther like me," he says with a smirk. "But don't worry. 'Cause soon you'll know why they call me the Killmonger."


	2. Chapter 2

"New Orleans has fallen," he says. His voice hangs heavy as he watches the video feed. Another star-spangled flag falls, replaced by the enemy's. Green and red, with a panther at its center. Wakanda.

"Looks more like they've joined, Cap," says Sam. The leather of his jacket squeaks as he crosses his arms. Been real easy to get good leather with all the looting. "Just like Atlanta." His chest heaves. How many years did he fight? How many men did he lose? Just to watch Americans raise the enemy flag. A damn shame.

"Just like Miami," says Rogers. He lets a gloved hand wander to his chin, almost forgetting the beard that's grown there. A year goes by fast. The Accords. Bucky. Then, global attacks.

"Guess we gotta kill more Wakandans," says Sam. Another day, another war, he might have forced a smile. He might have made a joke. Those days are gone. Now there is only war.

Natasha steps into the control room. Well, it hasn't been a control room in a while. Not since SHIELD days. Dust covers half the monitors and electricity barely crackles in their wires. The whole place is almost as worn as she is. The first wrinkles are starting to appear on her cheeks, and crow's feet around her eyes. When she spotted that first grey hair, she knew it was time for another dye job. Black, this time.

"There's been an attack upstate," she says. Not passion, no energy. Not even worry. Just a fact. "No survivors. Wakandan relays are reporting Tony and Rhodey dead."

Steve sighs. He's been doing that a lot lately. "Guess we came all this way for nothing."

"I don't think so," says Sam. "If they took down Tony, that means the big guy is here."

"King T'Challa," says Natasha.

"Sure, cat dude," he says. "If we can get out of this city, this'll be our best shot at finally killing him."

"We've never been this close," he says, mostly to himself. And to another. An old woman who lives now only in his memories. That spunky Brit who brought him down to this basement, strapped him in a machine, and made him a soldier.

Natasha rubs her hands together. "Well, I don't know about you two, but I'm gonna go kill him."

"No," says Steve.

She goes silent, then defiant. "He's here, so are we. Got a better plan?"

He stares into the video feed. It loops and loops, new content every few seconds, crashing waves upon his mind. Looters, rioters, celebrating soldiers. Prisoners, slaves, bleeding bodies. Just another day in New Orleans, not that he'd ever seen it. "We wait."

"We've been waiting for a year. And now Tony's dead. Now Rhodey's dead." Anger stirs within her. For so long those men seemed immortal. And now? They've been snuffed out like candles that lost their scent.

Then a realization hits Steve. Like a sandbag in the chest. "What about Vision?" he asks.

"Relays didn't mention him. Why?" she asks. "He's been out of play since our little break-up. Just like Scott, just like Wanda."

"If he's not with Stark, that means he's still out there, right?" he asks. "And if we find him, we can find Wanda."

"What, you wanna get the band back together?" asks Sam.

"Wanda and Vision are every bit as powerful as Thor and the Hulk, wherever the Hell they are," says Steve. The idea bubbles inside of him like a shaken soda can or a live grenade. He worries that it might evaporate if he doesn't get the words out quick enough. "We get them together, we might not have to fight in the shadows."

"Spit it out, Steve," she says.

"We've been trying to get to Tony," he says. "Inching our way across the world as it fell apart, just trying to get back to our mightiest hero. And all the while, we just figured he would be able to solve the problem. What if we've been looking for the wrong fighters? What if we just need a couple powerhouses? To hit them harder than they can hit us."

"You think we can be Avengers again?" asks Sam. He would have once sprung at the opportunity to fight alongside them. Now he wonders if it's even possible. Is this even a team anymore?

He glances back at the monitor. The screen has shifted to an aerial image of the Avengers compound. Smoke billows out of it. Wardogs surround it. But T'Challa doesn't make an appearance. He never has, at least not in that damned costume. For all they know, it's some other Wakandan in it. "Well, we've got someone to avenge."

"I'm stopping you right here," says Natasha. "No. We followed you around the world to get to Tony, now you're saying it was one big mistake. No, this is the wrong approach. We need to cut off the head now while we're still in the same state as him."

"Hey, I'm all for fighting tyranny," says Steve. "You know that. These guys, they're just Hydra with better equipment. But those little sticks aren't gonna do much against vibranium."

"And you think a girl with anger issues will?" she asks. They've been fighting too much lately. Every decision, every call, she knows is the wrong one. And she tells him so every time, but never fights for too long. And now, here they are, in some old SSR basement, realizing that their plans have all failed. It's enough to make her feel more impotent than she already is.

"It's a step in the right direction," adds Sam.

"Yeah. Especially if she brings her robot boyfriend. Who happens to be made of vibranium."

She lets herself breathe, lets her fists loosen. He's right, she realizes, even if she doesn't want to. Vibranium against vibranium. "But it doesn't matter if we can't get to them," she says. "Got a plan for that?"

"That depends," he says. "You still have Clint's number?"

"No, but I have an address."


	3. Chapter 3

The city died a year ago. New York City, once the zenith of American capitalism, is now a pile of rubble and blood. But it still fights against the tyranny of Wakanda. Somewhere in these shadows, beneath the brute might of the foe, lie defenders willing to fight at all costs. Brooklynn, Hell's Kitchen, Harlem, Queens, they're all battlegrounds between the righteous and the evil, and those somewhere in between.

Rogers can hardly walk a yard without seeing some dried splash of blood. Another square inch of the city where death had come. Is this what they fought for? They're not far from Stark's old tower. From the Battle of New York. What was the point?

"Let's keep moving," says Natasha. Her duffle bag is filled with the essentials: guns, bullets, and an old vibranium shield too big to carry unhidden.

"God, this place is depressing," says Sam.

The streets are hardly recognizable anymore, but neither are they. The sad, disheveled people don't notice them. How can they? All those poor souls can think about is their next meal. Of all colors and ages and sexes, they putter about with hunger in their hearts and anger toward the Empire.

A few stop in front of a television in a window. The Preacher delivers yet another speech. His words ring out into the street.

"My children. For years I said that this day would come. The day of reckoning, when my weapons would finally be in the hands of men and women wise enough to use them. Our army is here, the Empire is risen, my children. Rejoice."

The screen cuts to static. Then, a Dragon Flyer screams overhead. Rogers grabs the nearest civilian and covers them with his body – just another selfless act – but the Flyer isn't firing. It's bleeding smoke.

Smoke stains the air like ink. The Dragon Flyer shrieks as it crashes. People scream. It's chaos.

Then the Wardogs appear. They flood out from other streets, toward the destroyed Flyer. The sound of bolts flying screeches in Rogers' ear. And gunfire. Real guns, not these Wakandan lasers. He turns toward the battle as bleeding civilians flee.

Natasha grabs his arm. "Come on, we don't have time," she says. But he doesn't move. "We can't save everyone."

Steve jerks his arm away. "But we have to try."

He runs into battle as he so often does. Bolts fly beside him, as do stray bullets. Is this like World War 2? Or like a SHIELD mission? No, this is a new kind of Hell. This is his city on fire, his people covered in the blood of others. A world they shouldn't have to live in. He slides between them, leaps over those who have fallen, jostles through the throngs.

Then he's upon the crash. Wardogs battle it out with men with guns. White men, black men, blind of all color. They wear a white skull upon their chests and fire with heavy rifles, some even with minguns. It's deafening.

At the center of all this is a man in a tattered hoodie. The bolts burn against his skin but barely do anything. Barely even matter. He lifts one Wardog by her neck, slams her on the ground. She doesn't get back up.

"Don't let up," he yells. His voice manages to carry over the gunfire. The soldiers push back the Wardogs, but for every Wakandan that falls, three of their hit the ground. "Kid, now!"

Then Rogers sees a familiar sight. One more familiar than war ever could be. It's almost a smell. The smell of that tarmac in Germany. The last time all the Avengers were together.

He falls from above. His red and blue uniform has turned to black and grey after all these years, with cuts and scrapes slicing up his sides. But he's strong as ever, and hollers wildly as he lands among the Wardogs, almost overjoyed.

Webs loose from his wrists and coat the Wardogs. They curse in a mix of languages and fire their spear bolts against the webbing. But each strand that's cut is immediately replaced.

Their leader, who Rogers does not know, disarms the Wardogs one at a time as the Spider distracts them. Rogers joins too, seeing the strategy as it emerges. He lets his fists fly wildly against the warriors, breaks his knuckles against the cheeks, wraps his iron fingers around their weapons. The skull-wearing soldiers join them too, doing their best with only human strength.

"You guys need to calm down," says the Spider. He webs another Wardog. "It's just web, I promise! Not anything dirty."

"Quiet kid!" says the bulletproof man.

"Hey I recognize you!" He's spotted Rogers, weaves his way across the battlefield. His thin, lithe body is able to dodge bolts with ease. "You're from Brooklynn, right?" he asks.

Rogers knocks the nearest Wardog away, if just for some breathing room. "That's me. Queens?"

"That's right."

Natasha and Sam have entered the fray. Disarmed the foe, armed themselves, opened fire along with the rebels. The Wardogs fall almost instantly. The whole battle lasted maybe two minutes. Two dozen dead bodies litter the ground, along with some blackened blood. Wardogs struggle against their webbed bonds, curse in so many languages.

It doesn't feel over. It feels like a pause in the battle, and like violence could erupt any moment.

The bulletproof man steps forward, skin covered in grey ash. "So, the Avengers finally deigned to join us mortals down on the ground. Come to rescue us?" he asks.

Rogers looks down at the broken forces below, then at the skull-wearing soldiers. Now they're picking up Wakandan weapons. "Looks like you're in good shape."

"You need to get out of my city," he says.

The Spider stands beside him, then peels off his mask, revealing a boy too young for all this. "Whoa, hey, guys. You know, speaking as both an Avenger and a Defender-"

"You weren't an Avenger," says Sam.

"Who is this kid?" asks Natasha.

"Spiderboy," he says.

"Spider-Man," he corrects. "Why doesn't anybody get that right? Man."

"Spider-Man, bulletproof guy, we aren't staying here," says Rogers. "I respect your work, I really do, but our mission's taking us elsewhere."

"I'd say it's a shame, but people like you are why this shit happens," he says.

"But we need to get out of the city," says Rogers.

"Hey, I know how to get out," says Spider-Man, a bit too energetically.

"You can come with us," says Natasha. "Be an Avenger."

"He's got obligations," says the humorless leader. "And we can't help you. Got missions of our own."

"Luke, we can help him," says the Spider.

"We need to get these prisoners back to the basement," he says. "No time for this."

"Look, if you want this damned Empire out of our Empire State, you need to help us," says Rogers.

"Or just point us in the right direction," offers Sam.

One of the soldiers says, "Boss, we have to go."

Luke strokes his chin, looks down at the prisoners. "We don't have the resources to really help you right now," he says. Then he looks to Spider-Man. "Punisher's down, the Preacher's got Jessica, and the karate kids are missing. Can't lose you too."

Spider-Man looks down at the ground. Then he looks back at Rogers. "Wait a sec, Cap. I think I might know a guy." He looks over at Sam. "You got any problems sharing the stage with another bird guy?"


	4. Chapter 4

"You didn't think I'd really kill you?" asks Killmonger, now in more comfortable clothing. The operating base he stands in is one of her new favorite toys: a whole island in the middle of the ocean, made of African metal, armed by African soldiers, filled with white captives. And one black one. He places a hand on Rhodey's cheek. "Nah, you don't get to die yet."

"Go to Hell," says Rhodey. His arms burn. His legs don't. Whatever tech they've locked him in, it suspends him like a magnet. He can only look down at the Black Panther, at the soldiers shuffling behind him, at the sprawling base.

"You said that already. Still hasn't happened," says Killmonger.

A soldier – Sudanese by the symbols on his uniform – carries a tray over to his leader. It holds knives, scalpels, a drill, and any number of terrible things. Some vibranium, some rusty, some sharp, some dull. Some caked in blood. The soldier bows and leaves the tray. How many times has he delivered a tray of torture devices? Rhodey wouldn't be surprised if that was his only job. His chest hurts too much to say so.

Killmonger has seen all of these weapons before. He's held their weight, felt the resistance of another man's skin as he presses into them. He still remembers the way the corkscrew felt as it dug into Nakia's chest, just before he declared M'Baku the Protector of the Continent. She bled quite a bit.

But for this particular torture, he does not choose to use the corkscrew. "I prefer the corkscrew," he says, narrating as he selects his tool. "But it brings the pain too quick. See, with torture, you don't start out all hot and heavy. No, you gotta go in slow. Like you do with a nice girl. Then, bit by bit, you crank up the heat. Usually I start with a scalpel. See, guys think it's weak just because it's small. Like what they got between a white guy's legs. But that ain't true. Because a scalpel will cut deeper than any knife, if you use it the right way."

"Oh really?" he stammers. "Tell me more."

"Well, since you ask," he says with a smile. Sarcasm was never a trait he liked in others. But it tends to go away after a few cuts. "For you, I think I'll start with the hammer. Like your buddy Thor, wherever he is. Wanna know why you get the hammer?"

"No."

"Because I read up on what happened to those pretty little legs of yours." He draws a small hammer – the kind he might find in an emergency repair kit – and lets it slide against Rhodey's leg. Suspended and numb from the waist down, there's nothing he can do but let it happen. "One of your own shot you down. Friendly fire. I've seen it happen before. But you still get feeling in your legs sometimes, thanks to that Iron asshole. If you came to Wakanda, you'd be all healed up. We got universal healthcare like that. But now, instead, we're gonna see just how much feeling you got in those lil' chicken legs. You feel?"

He raises the hammer, a wicked smile on his face, and holds the pose for the sake of drama. A few of the Wardogs and foreign soldiers have stopped to stare. He brings the hammer down – then Rhodey shouts, "Stop!"

Killmonger lets his arm loosen, lets the weight of the hammer fall limp to his side. "You got something you wanna say to me?" he asks.

He leans in closer, until his ear is almost touching Rhodey's lips. Rhodey's breathing is ragged and weak as his weight falls, dragging him down, crushing his lungs one breath at a time. But he still finds the will to say: "You're gonna want to start with the corkscrew."

"Huh, is that so?" asks Killmonger. He replaces the hammer with that twisted jag of metal, looks over the old bloodstains. "Yeah, I figure this won't hurt as much as a laser in the back. Where should I start? The legs? Or somewhere higher up?"

Rhodey leans forward, lets his head droop. "The temple," he spits. "Take it or leave it."

"You're funny," he says with a forced laugh. "That's something your Iron buddy might've said. But you don't get off that easily."

He lifts the screw, but is interrupted once again.

"My king! We have news," shouts one of the Dora Milaje. Her shaved head stands out among the long braids, the locks, the curls of the other soldiers. She rushes forward, spear in hand, toward her king.

"What is it woman?" he asks with an exasperated sigh. "I'm quite busy."

She lifts her hand. The kimoyo beads rise and knit together, painting a picture like a screen. On it are three familiar faces. Rogers, Romanoff, and Wilson.

"Where are they?" he asks, still holding the screw against Rhodey's leg.

"New York. Sighted less than an hour ago."

He snickers, looks back to Rhodey. "Well then, Colonel. Looks like I've got a whole new set of questions to ask you."

The corkscrew is quick to dig into his flesh. His only resistance is his scream.


End file.
